


Andantino con amore

by ThunderstormsandMemories



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Ace Amis Week, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Music, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 19:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderstormsandMemories/pseuds/ThunderstormsandMemories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That surprised Combeferre, who had never known Jehan to lack inspiration for anything, especially not romantic inspiration. Half of the school literary magazine was love poems he had written under various pseudonyms. (Not that he’d read each one several times, allowing himself to imagine for a moment that they were written for him. Of course not.)<br/>"Can I hear it?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Andantino con amore

The first thing Combeferre noticed upon waking up was the music, a loud fast flute melody of shrill high notes and violent crescendos. The second thing was that he had fallen asleep slumped over in a chair in the band room, calc book open on his lap. There was a moment of panic- shit how long have I been sleeping for- and in his search for his phone to check the time he found a note left on his bassoon case, written in distinctive flowing script.  
"You’ve been looking so tired lately and E said you didn’t have anywhere else to be so I let you sleep. I hope my practicing isn’t what woke you. You’ve been sleeping since about ten minutes after school let out. -JP"  
The signature was a bit superfluous, since he recognized both the handwriting and the rings that had been used as paperweights. There were two, which Jehan always took off to play, one a silver band that went on his pinkie, engraved with music notes, the other of faceted black stone that he wore on his middle finger. It had never really come up in conversation, but Jehan was not one to be unaware of the symbolic implications of anything and so Combeferre assumed that he wore it as an expression of asexuality. Maybe part of it was just wishful thinking though, because liking someone who was also asexual took away some of his anxiety about dating, let him imagine that he and Jehan could actually have a relationship without all the guilt about not wanting sex.  
He should’ve immediately returned to studying but instead he found himself caught by the music, hypnotized by the power and emotion and a little amazed that such a loud, angry sound could come from such a small instrument and such a normally happy person. A few of the notes were rough, as if torn viciously from the very soul of the musician. Combeferre knew they were technically mistakes, and he wouldn’t’ve been satisfied with playing that way himself, but the raw honesty of emotion had more of an effect than proper technique ever could. And Jehan didn’t seem to notice, continuing the piece with the same ferocious energy. It didn’t occur to Combeferre that he was staring and that maybe that was a little strange, so entranced was he by the way Jehan’s fingers flowed over the keys and the way he moved with the music, accentuating the melody with weight shifts and dips of his flute. His hair was loose over his shoulders, and each breath changed the way his shirt draped across his back.  
When the song ended, the last note rang out in the silence, clear and strong, and Combeferre began to applaud. “That was amazing. You’re going to be fine in the audition.”  
Jehan turned around, blushing slightly. “Thanks. But that wasn’t the audition piece. That’s just something I play when… I get unhappy sometimes. Angry. I use that one as an outlet for frustration, and it is incredibly frustrating to have to learn for an audition an excerpt from a ballet that’s supposed to be a love song, since my own life is sadly lacking in material for inspiration.”  
That surprised Combeferre, who had never known Jehan to lack inspiration for anything, especially not romantic inspiration. Half of the school literary magazine was love poems he had written under various pseudonyms. (Not that he’d read each one several times, allowing himself to imagine for a moment that they were written for him. Of course not.)  
"Can I hear it?"  
—-  
He heard Combeferre’s chair squeak, even over the sound of his own playing, and the knowledge that someone was watching him practice and that that someone was Combeferre distracted him, made him crack the high note that was the focal point of the whole phrase. He cracked another, gave up, octaved it down, and looped back to play the phrase again until he was able to think about the music instead of his audience. He had to tap his foot, forgetting how to feel the beat, forgetting the rhythm of the piece, forgetting everything except please let Combeferre think I’m good.  
It was incredibly distracting, feeling as though Combeferre’s eyes were boring into his back, watching, judging his every action. He always felt that way around him, as if he always had to be better to measure up to the standards Combeferre held himself to. And he so badly wanted Combeferre to think of him as someone worth his attention.  
He played a wrong note, jarring him from his thoughts and forcing him to concentrate on the music and only the music. Some of his emotions still bled through, his fear of messing up and his frustration with his own inability to talk to the person he liked pushing him to play louder and faster, as if he could purge himself of any negative feelings. By the end his heart was racing, his sweating fingers slipping from the keys, tears stinging his eyes.  
And Combeferre was clapping.  
He was going to be done, having practiced for almost two hours straight by now while Combeferre had been sleeping, but Combeferre wanted to hear the audition solo and it would be a good idea to go over it again anyway. Or so he told himself.  
His first note was tentative, going in and out of tune, and the rhythm of the first phrase faltered, but he managed to keep going. Eventually he lost himself in the song, and if he played with a little more vibrato and showed off his dynamic range a bit more, well, it wasn’t done consciously. He just played, let muscle memory take over and poured his heart into the piece. He filled each note with emotion, tonguing the soft ones sweetly and delicately, letting the held ones quaver with longing.  
He almost didn’t believe when he finished, having lost himself so completely that he was surprised to find no more music to play, and he lowered his flute with a flourish, waiting, breath held, for a reaction.  
"That was… beautiful." Combeferre’s voice was barely more than a whisper.  
"Thank you." He paused and, with the exhilaration of music still racing through his veins, forgot about caution. "I couldn’t have made it so beautiful without… I’ve never played so well before, never really understood the song until now, and now I could only do it because I had inspiration. I found my muse…" He trailed off, aware of Combeferre’s approaching footsteps. He turned to see him standing awkwardly, too far away and yet swaying forward as if he meant to come nearer, smiling a nervous half-smile. Jehan stepped forward, closing the gap. "Thank you." And before he could lose his nerve (It’s okay, it’s you, you’re the physically affectionate one, it won’t be awkward if he just interprets it as friendly, it won’t be awkward, just go for it), he leaned in and brushed a kiss onto Combeferre’s lips.  
He pulled back immediately, not sure what he had just talked himself into doing, afraid to meet Combeferre’s eyes, apologies dancing on his tongue.  
Apologies were rendered unnecessary seconds later as this time Combeferre was the one to close the gap and press their lips together. Jehan’s flute was still held in his right hand and he knew he should be doing something with his left, though he couldn’t remember what exactly because Combeferre, for someone who hadn’t dated since freshman year (not that Jehan was keeping track or anything), was an amazing kisser. He felt as though his body had melted, existing only where he felt the gentle pressure of Combeferre’s arms and lips, and his mind was blank, filled only by the soft sweet melodies of the solo.

**Author's Note:**

> I) Title is a music marking that means "a little bit slowly, with love"  
> II) The flute playing stuff is based on personal experience so it's all accurate but also could just be me and not universal  
> III) Kind of for Ace Awareness week but mostly because flute player Jehan is a thing in canon and the fandom should really pay more attention to that  
> IV) The poems were in fact written about Combeferre


End file.
